by: Juan Meave
I’m a child of amnesty. My family came to the United States on two separate, but similar, journeys. My mom came with her family as a child, my dad by himself when he was a teenager, but both journeys began as illegal immigrants. Both sides of my family were from the same small mountain town in San Luis Potosi; they knew each other very well. In the early 1970’s, my mother’s family immigrated to the United States. They’d be one the first of many families to leave this town. Some families would immigrate to the U. S. Others, like my father’s, would move to the capital. There just wasn’t enough opportunity to support a family. To this day, the town is supported by the people that come back to visit, economic refugees coming back home. Continue reading “Amnesty: Compassion in the Age of Rhetoric”
by: Azul Uribe
My mother learned to speak English with the help of Bert & Ernie in the 70s. Every time I imagine it, it’s always some sepia toned version, like the fading pictures of that time. My mother sitting cross legged in a wood paneled room, the blue of her bell bottoms bright against the brown of the carpet, her waist length hair dark, and her big green eyes focused on flipping the cassette over to play the other side of the tape.
After all these decades my mother’s English still has a heavy accent and she can still sing “America The Beautiful” by heart. “Bert & Ernie!” she will say, and smile.
I didn’t live through that time period of my mother’s life but feel like I was there in some ghostly form because I can see it so vividly in my mind’s eye and I wonder if it has to do with how Bert & Ernie shaped my English too. Continue reading “Mom & Bert & Ernie & Me”